Oops, Looks Like You're Screwed
by jesuisnique
Summary: You regret things like people down shots, so it's no surprise when your throat stops burning and you stop thinking. (Or: Love is a lot like drinking Vodka; it takes a while before you start enjoying it and when you finally do, you black out and wake up in someone else's bathtub wearing nothing but a pair of socks that aren't yours and a lampshade belonging to someone's Nana.)


You shouldn't of done that, you think to yourself as his hand creeps further underneath your shirt. His lips are mouthing promises against your neck; promises of pleasure, promises of dancing in the middle of a thunderstorm, promises of forever and the next five minutes.

Your eyes focus on nothing but the stars that implode from behind your fragile eyelids, and for a moment you are afraid that your eyes will burn along with your eyelashes, but you quickly forget about that when he bites down on your skin. His grip on your sharp hipbone tightens and it's all too much after too long. So you pull back, open your eyes and look at him, hoping to see some form of something bad buried deep behind his too big pupils: an excuse for you to tear away from him and never look back. But all you see is the eyes of a damned soul, the very same eyes that stare back at you every time you try not to meet your eyes in the bathroom mirror. He smiles at you then, soft and timid, and you wonder how he can be so unsure about this when all you've ever done is wear your broken (but not defeated, no never defeated) heart on the sleeve of your non-obtrusive cardigan, never once managing to hide the emotions that always bubble through your veins.

Briefly, for at the moment you are not of sound mind, you consider wiping away that quirk of his lips with some pointed words and an even pointier look, but then you feel your own lips feebly start to answer his and all is lost. Your hollow chest, lined with blue and framed by brittle bones, fills with the sound of his breathing and the movement of his thumb against your paper-thin skin. By now your smile is painfully bright and you only know this because he blinks a few times after looking at it, almost as if it has imprinted itself onto his retinas.

You think - in the time it takes for him to beam beatifically at you and press his lips against your shaking ones in an all-encompassing, all giving, kiss - that you wouldn't mind leaving your mark on him. You wouldn't mind scratching your finger nails across his naked skin. You wouldn't mind sinking your teeth into the taunt muscle where neck and should meet until blood is drawn. You absolutely would not mind if you were the cause of some pain because in your experience pain sticks around much longer that any other emotion (you want him to cry and scream and beg and never ever forget you ever because if he does forget just how much you can make him feel then you think that you won't be able to great the dawn again).

Though, you sluggishly muse as your tongues dance an age-old waltz to the thumping 3/4 time of your hearts and heavy exhales, perhaps this will be the time when happi- you never get to finish that thought because all of a sudden his hand is tangling in your short hair and the other one in tugging you closer and suddenly there's an engine your body, thrumming and shaking, causing you to gasp and cant your bony hips against his solid ones. He groans loudly into your mouth, sucking on your swollen bottom lip and squeezing your arse in time to his rhythmic grinding.

This is it, you (attempt) to think, _this is it_.

And for the next (forever) five minutes as he and you gasp and shudder and writhe together amidst the burning of your bodies, those three words echo back and forth in the too full cavern that is your heart.

Because this was it; _he_ is it. He is the feeling of a water trickling down your throat when you forget to drink all day and only remember right before you go to bed. He is the last square of vanilla fudge that someone saved you because they know it's your favourite and you weren't there to enjoy it with them. He is the spare change that you find in the most curious of places but are thankful for none-the-less. He is that heavenly cup of cinnamon scented hot cocoa waiting for you on the kitchen counter after a hard day of work. He is the way your collar-bones jut out ever so slightly. He is the way your sweats fit around you just so or the way a dress falls from your shoulders.

But he's also that spilled coffee at 7 in the morning. He is that October chill you can never seem to shake, no matter how many showers you take or layers you shield yourself with. He is the bitterness of pure chocolate, the violent rattling of shutters during a heavy gale, the splash of gutter water from a passing car as you walk to the store to buy something sweet because even though you've put on a few pounds you never could (never can and never will) resist the temptation of sinking your sharp teeth into something tasty.

Then those five minutes are over and he leaves soon afterwards with a promise on his fingertips and a different look in his eyes.

No longer do those damned, soulful blues stare at you. No, instead your touch seems to have given him the resolve of a man who has yet to face death, but is now not afraid to do so. No, he will great whichever monster he has too like an old friend and come back to you once it's over. Bloodied and bruised, certainly, but he will come back to you and that's all you want.

To not be forgotten.

And it occurs to you then that while he may have gotten some character forming realisation out of your (desperately) passionate embrace, all you got was bruised flesh and confirmation of your own damn fears.

You fix your shirt, smoothing down wrinkles and fix the buttons of your cardigan.

You shouldn't of done this, you whisper to yourself as your eyes make contact with the flushed and kiss painted creature staring back at you from a mirror. You silly, silly girl, you sigh as the eyes of your reflection grow hazy with unshed tears and that horrible sense of compassion you seem to have for everyone (but you never asked for it and you never wanted to be the one at the opposite end of it).

You bump into the door frame on your way out and all you can think of (to your ever-present shame) is that it gives you an excuse should anyone see the bruising on your easily stained skin.

* * *

_Disclaimer: I don't own characters and stuff. _

_ALSO. This is sorta a companion piece to 'Oh Boy, You Got It Bad'. In a way. I think. _

_AND. I just love MM and D angst because you just don't get enough of it. Which is, in itself, a horrific travesty because those two messed up babes have so much potential to mess up their relationship extravagantly and messed up relationships are the best. _

_PS. You see any mistakes holla at a brutha and I'll fix 'em right up. _

_PPS. I can't believe I wrote 'holla at a brutha'. _


End file.
